Yet Another Peter Pan Sequel?
by Jeffery Harris
Summary: The kind of speculative musing that would leave J.M. Barrie scratching his head.


As I sit here, with a stomach full of hot pizza, cold adult beverage, and the pleasing prospect of a few days off, I haven given my whimsical side a loose rein. Such moments can get bizarre, take my word for it. In fact, here's a sample of the weirdness that results...

* * * * * * * *

When last we saw Peter Pan, he had deposited Wendy and her siblings, and his mutinous crew of Lost Boys, on the dingy cobblestone steps of Edwardian England. His emotions in tatters, his heart battered by his first crush, he flew back to up into the sooty clouds over London, accompanied by his faithful fairy Tinkerbell, swearing he'd had enough of ungrateful sycophants, and swore he'd suffer no further forays into female entanglements.

Well, we all know how short-lived a boy's memory can be, don't we? Not to mention that the timeless tropical isle of Neverland got pretty boring pretty quickly, what with no pirates around for sport, no Lost Boys for diversion, and no one really to tease/torment. It was inevitable that the unfettered immortal would venture back to the "normal" world, but steadfastly abandoned the nation of his birth, and started expanding his horizons.

Over the subsequent decades, he acquired a new set of Lost Boys, a true hodge-podge of waifs and orphans from the Four Corners of the Empire (he's British, remember?). And it wasn't long before someone stumbled across the diary -- and maps -- of one James Hook, recently deceased, and found the portal into the sunny waters around Neverland. These gents no longer sailed wooden hulls under glistening canvas, or scoured the seas under the night-black flag of the Skull-and-Crossbones. Oh, no, these gents sailed ships of steel, under the red and black flag of Nazi Germany...and they had neither a sense of adventure nor a sense of humor.

"Immortality?" mused the captain of the I-503, a squared-jawed veteran of too many wolf-packs and too many close encounters. When one of the locals (dressed in Native American garb, of all things, and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like Iroquois) was captured and interrogated, the real secret of the island was revealed. "And who is this Peter Pan?" A British expatriate (and thus an enemy) who had somehow gained the power to fly, and served as the _de facto_ guardian of the island. In fact, the central part of the island was infested with English-speaking boys from India, Australia, New Zealand, parts of India -- even Jamaica. This simply would not do, as the Fuhrer would find this a suitable refuge in case the tides of war turned against him...and the local fairy community might well be convinced to break their sworn neutrality in human affairs and join the Third Reich. "Well, we shall see about this!"

A very lop-sided confrontation followed when Pan returned from his latest voyage of acquisition, with yet another orphan in tow. Only this time, he faced machine guns, an armor-plated ship that sailed _under _the water, and a host of grim-faced men who had little interest in swordfights, personal duels, and fun. It might have been a total rout of Pan and his allies were it not for the shell from the vessel's lone deck gun that landed squarely on top of Neverland's newest invited resident: an eight-year-old boy with dark hair and glasses. The shell detonated in a horrifically-loud explosion that blasted the nearby trees to splinters, and turned the impact point into a smoking crater...

...except the boy was still standing, draped in the shredded fragments of his favorite pair of blue jeans and red/yellow flannel shirt, and the few remaining shards of his glasses. Everyone stopped their fighting and gaped at the lone figure, who simply chewed his bubblegum and glared around him.

"Those clothes were a present from Ma and Pa," he said in his Kansas drawl.

Then, with nary a shrug, he soared into air faster than Pan had ever achieved, damn-near cracking the sound barrier in the process. He flew like a meteor into _and through_ the steel vessel, straight down, puncturing a boy-sized hole in the hull as he punched through the bottom. Then, he lifted the vessel clear out of the water, simultaneously cutting the conning tower off with actinic beams of light from his eyes. He flipped the ship over and proceeded to shake the remaining crew out of it, who plunged screaming into the shallow waters of the lagoon -- there to meet a reception of hungry crocodiles and malicious mermaids. The calm waters frothed and foamed red, and then were suddenly silent and empty. Meanwhile, the now-empty ship was unceremoniously tossed onto the beach, more-or-less crushing the landing party that had been raising such havoc with the natives.

The few survivors were turned over to the local chieftain, to be dealt with as he saw fit.

As for the heroic new arrival, who was cheered loudly by everyone (except Peter Pan), he sorta shrugged and said, "Just call me Clark." Peter was now as green as the hose and jerkin he favored, having been dramatically usurped as "King of the Island".

And it was just about that time when a sailing barge from one of the near-by islands arrived, fully-laden with Amazon warriors bedecked in bronze armour, armed with swords, bows, and javelins. The leader, an olive-skinned beauty by the name of Hippolyta, waded ashore with her rescue party behind her...including an eight-year-old brunette whom Hippolyta introduced as her daughter, Diana. Diana and Clark seemed attracted to each other almost immediately.

Peter Pan flew off in a sulk.


End file.
